Shadow of Doubt
by Faye Dartmouth
Summary: After the death of his wife, John Winchester looks for answers and finds more truth than he knows what to do with.


Summary: After the death of his wife, John Winchester looks for answers and finds more truth than he knows what to do with.

A/N: I seem to have this deep problem with John because he seems like such a weak character in a way—weak for not being able to really cope with the tragedy in his life. Instead he sets out on a quest that not only entangles his own life with evil but his sons' as well. To me, no matter how much John loves the boys, there is something nearly unforgivable in that. So this story tracks an early encounter with Missouri Mosley and the suspicion that grows from that encounter. I think there is something deeply unresolved between Sam and his dad, and this is kind of my take on why. I'm not sure if it's believable or if it's too one-sided—I don't want John to seem heartless or stupid and off the deep end. I just think he's a broken man who needs someone to blame and something to keep him going. I have some ideas to extend this but still no definitive ending, so let me know what you think.

**Shadow of Doubt**

Missouri Mosley had seen many things, both in the real world and in her mind. She had witnessed and foreseen tragedy. She had felt and experienced rage. She knew more about the dark side of this world then she cared to admit. Missouri didn't scare easily and she was rarely surprised. So no one was more unnerved than herself when she could not contain a shudder.

She could feel her client's eyes boring into her, examining her intently. "So?" he asked expectantly.

She took a deep breath, trying to collect herself as she stood in the charred remains of the nursery. Missouri prided herself in her self-control. She had the ability to hide her feelings, to mask the truth. She found that the truth rarely did her clients much good and it rarely gave her repeat costumers and glowing recommendations.

So when John Winchester showed up at her door, she had been prepared to offer him a beautiful lie. She could see by looking at him with his gaunt features and unkempt appearance that the man had lost so much. She didn't need supernatural sensitivity for that. And when she focused in on his aura, she could make out the turmoil within him and the deeply rooted fearful uncertainty. This man needed closure so he could go on and raise his sons.

But before she could tell him that Mary was in a better place, that she simply wanted him to keep living, to be the best dad he could for the boys, she sensed that it wouldn't be enough. There was an obsessive determination in John's grief—a terror borne from a close encounter not only with death, but with evil.

She had been hesitant with her words to him—she placed her answers delicately between the truth and the perfection. John already sensed the evil; he only needed it to be confirmed.

Usually people who saw her had simple problems that she could reason through more than anything else. But John was different, and she found herself not wholly certain of his story because she couldn't truly understand the evil he described. John's story was morbidly fantastic, and she knew he believed it, but she could not place its truth. So when John asked her to visit the home, she accepted, partly to satisfy her own need to know.

She didn't know what she expected, but standing there was nearly physically painful. She could hear the mother's screams, she could see the baby in the crib, she could see the little boy scared and confused running down the hall, she could see John dumbfounded and desperate, and she could almost make out the silhouette of a misplaced stranger.

Collecting herself, she turned to him. Her first instinct was to lie to him. This time it wasn't the desperation in his eyes that made her tell the truth. Rather, the sheer, overwhelming force of the lingering evil kept her from finding an adequate falsehood of comfort. "Evil visited your family."

John looked impatient. "Do you know what it was?"

Missouri moved about the room, reliving the night's events as best she could through the haze of evil that enveloped the room. "It's unlike anything I've sensed before," she admitted finally.

"What do you mean?"

She looked up and could see the flames, feel their heat, hear the screams.

She closed her eyes. "It's more powerful than anything I've ever known."

John stared at her, waiting for more.

Missouri met his gaze sadly. "I'm sorry."

John's features fell. "You have to help me. You're the only one who can. I have to know—I have to make this right."

"Nothing will change Mary's fate," Missouri told him gently.

A sob caught unexpectedly in John's throat. "I need to know why—why did it come after us?"

Missouri knew evil stalked purity for destruction's sake. But somewhere in that room, she sensed a malevolent purpose lurking behind this story. "Where are your children?"

"Dean's at preschool. Sam's at a friend's house."

There was one thing she was certain of. "I need to see Sam."

ooooooo

Sam was asleep. The Winchesters were holed up with some benevolent friends. The boys shared the cramped quarters of the family's office. Dean's cot was shoved in front of a computer desk while Sam's travel crib, salvaged from the home, was set up on the opposite wall amidst stacked Rubbermaid storage containers. Although it was mid-afternoon, the blinds were drawn, shading the tiny office. Missouri requested to see Sam alone, leaving John in the living room with the perplexed homeowner.

She approached the crib gently, smiling at the sweetness of his tiny features. The small child was on his back, partially covered by a blue baby blanket. His head was turned toward the wall and his small chest rose and fell evenly. Softly, she placed a hand on his head.

A sudden burst of images overwhelmed her—images from the fire, of his mother, of his brother—at first so frenzied she couldn't sort them. But she focused and found the images more orderly. She saw two boys learning to shoot guns, a boy without a permanent address, a young man in a library, a boy and his father yelling, a son rebelling, a family falling apart. There was security, pain, desire, inadequacy, failure.

She did not understand why these images flooded her—her visions did not usually come with such chaotic clarity. She closed her eyes and the snippets of the future became muted as she groped at a deeper image which was guarded by a wall of flames in the boy's mind. She could see the nursery, a mobile dancing above her, then a shadow. She stared harder and the shadow became a dark figure looming above, an outline of a smile on his face.

She gasped and took her hand away, staring in wonder at the baby before her. She had never sensed such palpable and defined pain, such terror, from so small a being.

The sleeping baby's face scrunched, as if he were about to cry. Then the features smoothed and he sighed, returning to a somewhat peaceful sleep.

This boy was powerful. She knew that the images of the future had not been of her divination, but were buried somewhere within the boy. The blur of images had slowed for her, as if she had been in communication with the child.

The boy was a mystery, surrounded by darkness. Some untrained psychics could mistake the boy for darkness, for it seemed to follow him still. But she was more gifted than most and she knew that he was not darkness, at least not inherently. She did not know how to help him, but she could foresee the many struggles that awaited him.

The dark attacker and his purpose still eluded her, but she could sense it was tied to the child before her and his exceptional power.

She stroked his head and whispered, "You know, don't you?"

Missouri stood there a moment more, trying to comfort the tiny boy's hidden distress. This was a truth she didn't know how to package—she didn't know enough detail to give John the closure he craved and she sensed that John would never understand if his son was linked to his beautiful wife's death. John came to her needing the truth more than most people she met, but sometimes even the most determined clients didn't know what was best for them. She could show John evil, explain it to him, remove the veil, but she could not help him define it, not without destroying a family and condemning a little boy. Part of her knew that would come soon enough for all of them, but it didn't need to be today.

Kissing the boy on the forehead, she tried not to cry. She didn't noticed John Winchester watching her suspiciously from the doorway.

ooooooo

John watched as water filled the tub. Sam frolicked happily, leaned against the back end of the tub, splashing the warm water as it began to cover his legs.

John had left Kansas, tried to make it nothing more than a bad memory, a lingering aftertaste. He took the boys and a handful of their possessions and went as far away as he could. He needed to get away from his friends who didn't know what to say to him anymore, the job he could no longer focus on, and the benevolence of strangers who strived for empathy but only made him feel worse. He needed to get away from that town, that street, that house—that place that Mary had loved so much that she was a part of it. California wasn't really far enough, but it would have to do, and John did the best he could.

Sam was a year old now and Dean had started kindergarten. In the months since Mary died, John had discovered a beautiful steadiness in Dean's character. Each day went by, and John loved him more. Dean could remember his mother at just the right moments to bring a smile to his father's face. Dean could echo his father's vengeance when John needed to vent. He knew his father's emotions and understood them. Dean was selfless enough to cater to them. Although John knew he needed to be the adult, he cherished the devotion from his son.

Sam was growing quickly, but John could not rejoice in his milestones as he had Dean's. When Sam took his first steps, he could not bring himself to cheer because he knew they were steps Mary would never see. So he regarded his youngest son hesitantly, afraid of the painful reminders in his joys. But Sam thrived anyway. He was chubby and cheerful, oblivious to his father's desolation, oblivious to his father's growing fear and skepticism.

He could not shake the look on Missouri's face when she saw his son or how happy Sam had been that night when he checked on him. The way Sammy had grinned and cooed with his mother gutted on the ceiling.

Part of him knew Sam didn't know any better, that Sammy was just an innocent baby, but sometimes he couldn't let it go. Sam's innocence was tainted.

As the water rose, John watched as Sammy laughed joyfully—that same laugh, that same smile.

He froze. His jaw locked and he could not tear his eyes from his son's contented features. He prayed silently for it to stop.

The water rose to Sam's chest, and the boy still smiled. He did not know they lived in a poor part of town and that mold grew in the grout above his head. He did not know that he did not get enough vegetables in his diet and that he drank watered-down Kool-Aid made from dirty tap water. He did not know his father drank too hard and worked too little. He did not know he did not have a mother anymore because he didn't know he had ever had one. All Sam knew was that could see his father perched on the toilet and that the water was warm and wet. He felt safe, secure, satisfied.

John's grief was paralyzing. He could not relinquish the shadow of doubt that possessed him and when he looked into his son's eyes, there was a power, an awful truth.

The water covered Sam's arms and he could no longer raise them above the water to flail them. The child's smile faded and his tiny brow creased with sudden concern. Sammy broke into a cry as the water came to his chin and surrounded his ears.

John heard the roar of the water pouring from the faucet, ringing in his ears, drowning out Sammy's outburst of terrified screams. He felt the water rushing through him and he welcomed it as if it could extinguish the fire that burned within him, the fire he always saw reflected in little Sammy's eyes as his mother burned above his head. He watched in awe as the water consumed his youngest son.

"Dad!"

John blinked, seeing Dean rush to the tub. The five-year-old plucked his baby brother from the rising water just as it covered Sammy's mouth. Although Sam was nearly too big for the five-year-old to carry, Dean cradled the shivering and sputtering baby close and turned wide eyes to his father.

"What are you doing?" he asked, leaning over carefully to shut off the water without losing grip on his dripping wet brother.

The bathroom was plunged into a horrific silence and John studied his son in a vacuum, noticing the nuances of his sons' behavior. Dean protectively held his brother, his hand rubbing the younger's back in gentle, soothing, methodical circles. Sammy's trembling eased in his brother's embrace, almost melting into him with a complete trust. His boys needed each other, more than they needed him.

A pang of jealousy coursed through him and he realized that he needed his sons more than anything else. They were his only reason for vengeance. Without them, he would have taken a gun to his head months ago.

Sam's cries were reduced to sniffles and John's stomach turned cold as he realized what he'd done. He wondered if Dean had any idea what he'd walked in on, what he'd prevented.

Dean watched, feeling more awkward now than anything else, as his father broke down into tears and buried his head in his hands.

John could not condemn his baby—not that beautiful, sweet boy. He needed to believe Sammy could be saved, that he had misunderstood that look in Missouri's eyes, that it didn't all stem from a happy baby. Not when that boy had made his wife so happy, not when she could look at him and say, "Now we're perfect, John, now we're complete." And not when his oldest son, whom he trusted more than life itself, loved him, needed him. After all, for innocence to be tainted means that there must still be innocence. And he had to save what was left, if it was the last thing he did. He owed Mary that much.

Wiping his face, John looked up, meeting Dean's piercing and demanding gaze. With an outstretched hand, he beckoned his son and Dean shuffled hesitantly toward him. John put a hand on Dean's shoulder and looked deeply into his eldest's uncertain eyes.

He took a shaky breath. "Your job, Dean," he said, "is to watch out for Sammy. I need you to always be there for him, protect him from anything and everything. No matter what."

Dean tried not to look scared. He knew his father's emotion, but this level of intensity was foreign to him. "Okay."

"Promise me, Dean," John ordered desperately. He could protect Sam from the things that wished to harm him—people, things, life, even evil—but he did not know if he could protect his son from his own doubts and weakness.

"I promise," Dean said unevenly as he shifted his brother in his arms.

He could still see the steadiness in Dean's eyes, and thanked the God he no longer wanted to believe in for that small grace. He could always count on Dean, and he dedicated himself to being someone that both of his boys could always count on.

As tears spilled down his face again, John pulled his sons into a strong embrace, praying for forgiveness, praying for strength, praying for grace.


End file.
